


The Pearl of Great Price (NOW CONTINUED)

by Beneath_The_Stormiest_Seas



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), game of thrones
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Tourney at Harrenhal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2020-03-05 22:33:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18838123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beneath_The_Stormiest_Seas/pseuds/Beneath_The_Stormiest_Seas
Summary: Elia Martell has failed in her greatest endeavor as a Targaryen Princess. She has died in her quest to give Rhaegar a prince, birthing a child that lives only a handful of minutes before joining her. Furious, Aerys forces Rhaegar to find another wife, for the dragon must always have three heads. Barely given time to properly bury Elia, he swears that his only focus will be to end his father's tyrannical rule, but that is thrown to the winds when a wild she-wolf shows up at Harrenhal, amid a flock of Southron ladies vying for the greatest prize: The title of Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. This Lyanna is a walking contradiction, to be sure, but Rhaegar mustn't stray from the path of overthrowing his monster of a father, and this wolf-girl seems to be in his way at every step.





	1. Into Battle We Go

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is my first "Actual" story to be published, and I hope that you enjoy it! As always, any comments/ideas/criticisms are welcome, I'd love to hear any and all feedback! As well as if this is decent enough to be continued with!  
> ~M

The sun that had been beating down on their backs for days had managed to transform the great God’s Eye into a shimmering ripple of silver light, almost alive in how it twisted and writhed in the summer sun. Lyanna had always thought that the snows and ices that shrouded the lands of her home, the great castle of Winterfell, was easily the most beautiful place in all of the Seven Kingdoms, but there was something breathtaking about the broken majesty that were the ruins of Harrenhall. From her spot upon the highest hill, she stared in wonderment at the sheer number of people she saw swarming the area, her silver-grey eyes drinking in the sight of ladies floating by in the lightest summer silks, to the greatest knights of the realm strutting by dressed from head to toe in magnificent suits of glittering armor. Even the squires, carrying flagons of wine and scurrying to do their lords’ orders fascinated her.

“See that mist, there?” Benjen’s voice stirred her from her thoughts, and she swung her gaze to follow to where he had pointed, squinting as she made out a small island, shrouded in swirling grey mist. A shard of ice seemed to pierce her heart while looking at the small spit of land, and she felt herself shudder despite the summer heat.

“The Isle of Faces, I was told that there are even weirwood trees that grow on it.” His voice was all-knowing, and she rolled her eyes at the self importance lacing his words. Two years older, and he acted as though he had another lifetime worth of knowledge over her.

“Really? I thought Winterfell was the only place left with a weirwood.” She murmured, her attention already drifting back to the tourney. Her stomach formed a hard pit when she noted the Stark banners, flapping faintly on the hill below, and even further still when she caught sight of the yellow and black fabrics less than half a tent-length away. The Stag of Baratheon, enough to foul her mood with a single glance.

“Riders, Lya! Ned and Bran!” The childish excitement in her brother's voice had her smiling, as if the years of lordly training were stripped away the minute the siblings were promised the chance to be together again. She dragged her gaze from the multitudes of people to the small detachment of riders making their way up the hillside, garbed in the grey and whites of House Stark.

“Well, we can’t keep them waiting. Last one there is..” Here she paused, digging her heels into her mare’s side, the breeze carrying her laughter as she darted away from her brother's side, “Stupid!”

She would forever adore the feeling of the wind whipping through her hair, and as the blackened towers of Harrenhall loomed ever-closer, she felt a strange sense of melancholy freeze her veins, as though she would never again be able to be so free. The feeling was soon shaken as soon as her brother overtook her, his ebony stallion easily outpacing her small silver mare. He was the first to reach the group of riders, pulling the nearest man into an embrace, nearly dragging the poor boy from his horse.

“Ben! Put me down, I’m not a child!’’ The sound of Ned’s complaining sent another smile to her lips, and she swung herself from the saddle, landing to the earth with a small puff of dust. Ned had grown, the shadow of stubble darkening his cheeks, and she chuckled fondly at the pained expression he shot from the circle of Ben’s arms. It certainly felt as though her brother’s had transformed in the year they had been parted, turned into men that their father would be proud of.

“If you were, Ned, you’d be a giant-child for sure!” She teased, laughing as Ben finally released him, and returning the covert sticking out of his tongue. It was truly as though they were simply children again, and she cherished the feeling. Brandon surveyed them from atop his own destrider, the stark direwolf stamped on his breastplate snarling in the bright sunlight, his expression schooled into what the remaining three Stark Children had dubbed the “Lordling”. Lord he did look, the grey cloak swirling behind him adding an air of nobility not previously seen by any of his siblings. She had to stifle a laugh at the absurdness of it all, earning a stern glare from Brandon as he took her in, lip curling at the sight of her riding clothes.

“Go and change, Lya. You’re to meet Robert Baratheon before the first joust, and I won’t have you shaming our house by looking like a cretin.” His voice brokered no arguments, and she glared, unsettled by the man of duty that had seemingly replaced her once favorite brother. She swung herself into the saddle without another word, snapping the reins and galloping away from the strangling sense of entrapment that seemed to follow Brandon’s harsh words. There had been no formal announcement as of yet, but she knew the only reason Rickard had even allowed her to accompany her brothers South was so she could be inspected by this Robert Baratheon.

“A piece of bloody meat, sold to the highest bidder.” She hissed to herself, hating every moment of what was now to be some stupid mummer’s farce, a chance to show her off like some prized mare before the stud.

_“I should’ve been born a man,”_ She thought bitterly as the first set of tents began to pass her by, _“The third Stark boy, able to do what I want.”_ She slowed as she approached the Stark camp, practically throwing herself from her horse in her haste to escape what seemed to be the million pairs of eyes that were now watching her.

“Not sold off into a loveless marriage with some beast.” She muttered crossly as she threw aside the opening to her tent, startling the young handmaid within. The girl dropped into a quick curtsy, nearly kissing the dirt in her haste, and rose shakily.

“M-m’lady. I w-was sent to d-dress you.” She stumbled over her words, obviously nervous, and it sent a stab of pity through Lyanna’s heart.

“Of course, you must be Alissa. My father told me you’d be serving me.” She offered a warm smile, her eyes drawn to the confection of dark grey silk the girl had been smoothing out. She was not some silly Southron maiden, swooning over the newest dress styles, but even she had to admit that it had been crafted with a keen eye. White embroidery ran the length of the neckline (no doubt to emphasize her newly bloomed cleavage, the thought enough to make her cheeks flush), and small seed pearls were sewn along her hem, shining faintly in the dim torchlight of her tent.

“We’d best begin, then,” She sighed with resignation, tugging her jacket from her shoulders. If Brandon wanted her to play the lady, play she would. Tonight was her stage, and everyone her players. In mere minutes she was dressed, breathing shallowly as a result of the corset she had been forced into, despite her pleas for mercy. A looking-glass (A luxury her father rarely afforded her, “Your beauty isn’t what they want with you, Lyanna, only your name holds any worth.”) allowed her to study the woman she had almost-magically been transformed to. Her wild curls had been coaxed into a simple chingon, laced here and there with silver-topped pins that threw glimmers of light anytime she turned her head. A direwolf locket, set in sterling silver, hung from her throat, falling to her mid-chest. A perfect little lady, in every sense of the word. How she despised it! Squaring her shoulders, she drew in as deep of a breath she could, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear.

“Into battle we go.” She murmured darkly, clutching her skirts tightly in one hand as she exited the tent, swearing that she would pay no more mind to this Beastly Baratheon.


	2. Fire and Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! First off, if you're reading this, thank you for deciding to give this story a chance! I hope to keep you fueled with regular updates. As always, comments/questions/ideas/criticisms are welcomed! I hope you enjoy!  
> -M

Rhaegar Targaryen was no stranger to disappointments. Many had warped the facets of his life, twining their thorns ‘round his heart without mercy. The earliest one, he recalled dimly, was watching the pride drain from his father’s eyes with each passing moon; it had since been replaced with a paranoid distrust, as shifting and ever changing as the golden sands of Dorne.

_Dorne._

_Elia._

He was recalled to the present by the soft rustlings of the Silent Sisters, and felt a stab of guilt for having allowed his mind to wander, on this day, of all days. His hand tightened on the pommel of his sword, and he straightened his spine, ignoring the nagging ache that the weight his armour had caused over the night. And what a night it had been, filled with silent pleas of forgiveness.

Elia Martell had been a handsome woman, but the Stranger’s kiss had lent her an unearthly sort of peace, one that both relieved and terrified him as he gazed upon her still form. Her ebony curls had been arranged artfully by the withered hands of the Silent Sisters, framing the proud profile she had borne in life. She was swathed in the crimsons and blacks of her good-family, further paling her cold skin. In her arms rested their son, his tiny hands folded in hers, his lips already painted in death’s pale blue. He blinked away the sudden surge of tears that threatened to choke him, instead lifting his eyes to the myriad of colors that filtered through the windows, painting the sept in every shade of light.

 _“A son that is the living image of his father..”_ He could swear he felt Elia’s breath brush his ear as her words echoed in the silent confines of his mind, and he at last felt a single tear cut a path down his cheek. The sweet woman had promised him all she could, and what was her reward? To be burned swathed in the colors that had tormented her so, brushed into oblivion with the ashes, clutching the child that had followed her into Death’s embrace. Their Promised Prince, never again to draw breath. 

_“Surely, Your Grace, the Princess can be allowed to be buried in her House colors..” Rhaegar murmured, his head lowered in what could pass as respect, much as he wanted to meet the monster’s eyes and challenge him._

_The creature sitting atop the Iron Throne simply studied him, a choking laugh passing it’s ragged, scabbed lips as he shook his head. “The Dornish bitch will be buried in our colors. A honor that’s far too good for her, considering she only birthed you a dead dragon.” Aerys spat, missing the way Rhaegar’s hands clenched at his sides. Rhaella, seated at the monster’s side, stared dead-ahead, her eyes glassy as she tugged at her sleeves, the shadows of fading bruises painting her fair skin a horrifying shade of amethyst._

_“A prince, Your Grace. Your Grandchild.” Rhaegar murmured, hoping to inspire the smallest shred of pity in the cold, dark hole where the creature’s heart had once resided._

_“Pah, only a worthless brat that was too Dornish, and a sniveling girl with no brother to wed her.” Aerys dismissed the memory of the newest child with a wave of his hand, as if he had been a fleeting, trivial thing, fingernails curved into talons._

_“You should be grateful that such a disgrace had the good sense to die.” He snarled, settling back into the Throne with a self-satisfied smile, ignoring the barbed iron that tore into his skin, staining his robes with the crimson of his House. “There are plenty of other sluts for you to get a child on.” He ran a gnarled hand over the matted tangled of his silver beard, his violet eyes narrowing in thought. “Whent has a tourney at Harrenhal, the fool. Go there, and find another slut to birth you dragons. Anyone but that whelp of Tywin’s.” He commanded, grinning at the dawn of horror that broke over his eldest son’s face._

_“Your Grace, surely a period of mourning can be observed? The Princess should be honor-” Rhaegar’s words were cut off by the simple wave of a clawed hand, the King’s lip curling in disgust at the very idea._

_“Burn the bitch before you go, I don’t want Dornish filth in my halls.” He barked, clambering to unsteady feet. “Go.” He ordered, glaring in distrust as Rhaegar dipped into a low bow, backing away from the Throne with his jaw set into a hard line of anger. As he exited the Great Hall, he could hear the king ordering the pyre built, lamenting over how long it would take to rid themselves of the “Dornish slut.”_

_“You deserved better than this, my love..”_ He thought bitterly, ignoring the tolling of the bells that threatened to shake the sept itself. Still too, he ignored the throngs of people that filed in solemn procession past his wife’s pyre, offering hushed prayers and posies of scraggly flowers. He wished he too was one of the statues decorating the sept, wished his heart could grow as cold and unfeeling as the marble stone. But this was his punishment, to stand vigil at the side of the woman that he had loved, the woman he had watched die with the simple passing of the moon. 

Smoke soon filled the sept, obscuring Elia’s form in a cloud of black, and he felt his eyes burn once more with the sting of unshed tears. She had deserved so much better than this, to be burned miles from her beloved home, without any of her family to usher her into the afterworld. The crackling of the fire sickened him, as did the look of wondrous glee on his father's face as he watched the flames roar ;the same way a child might watch a previously unseen wonder. He couldn’t stand it any longer. The smell of burning, the crushing crowds of people. Let alone the sight of his daughter burying her face in her grandmother’s skirts to muffle her sobs, every shake of her small shoulders sending a dagger through his heart. He couldn’t face her, this child that was all Elia. He was too afraid to see the accusation in her eyes, as he had seen in her mother’s eyes during her final moments. He had to get out. Shouldering past the Kingsguard that lined the dais, he made for the open doors, beckoning him with the promise of sunshine. Anywhere, _anywhere_ , was better than here.


	3. Ice Endures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, any comments/questions/ideas/criticisms are welcomed! I do hope you enjoy this next chapter, lovelies! -M

The Southern sun wasn’t her friend, Lyanna decided as she crept through the grounds, a thin sheen of sweat already covering her brow. _“Damn this infernal dress, and damn Brandon for making me wear it.”_ She griped testily, holding her skirts away from the mud, lest she “Shame her house” as Bran had warned she would. It wasn’t as if she was trying to shirk her duties, _No, wait. Yes, yes she was._ She wanted to avoid meeting the beast she would be irrevocably be tied to for as long as possible. It wasn't as if word of Robert Baratheon’s antics hadn’t already reached her ears, whispered about by her handmaidens in tones hushed with pity. 

_”I heard he’s already got a bastard on some girl, and pays her for his keep.”_

_“A bastard? I heard at least two of the poor wee ones are living in the Vale.”_

Lyanna had silenced both girls with a stony glare, her eyes as cold as the ice that blanketed the lands of Winterfell, and the topic had been dropped without another word. The words had already done their damage though, managing to lodge in the back of her mind the entire journey south. She was to be tied to this brute, for life, and no doubt forced to raise children that weren’t even of her own blood. She shook her head to chase the thoughts from her mind, nearly colliding with Ned, who looked relieved to have finally found her. 

“We thought you had half-ridden back to Winterfell, Lya.” He teased lightly, his normally stoic expression melting into one of his rare smiles, reserved only for her, 

“As if Brandon would let me set a foot outside our camp without you or Benjen at my side.” She countered, crossing her arms over her chest as she sighed heavily. 

“I don’t want this, Ned. I don’t want _him_. “ Her voice wavered dangerously, threatening to crack as she bit back the sudden surge of tears. Her brother sighed, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. 

“You knew this would happen, Lya. We all need to do our duty, and Father expects you to do your part.” He explained, his voice gentle, as if she were a spooked mare that would bolt at any moment, and she hated the pity that she could hear lacing his words. 

“That’s easy for you to say, Ned..Father isn’t forcing you into a marriage with some beast.” She spat, her wolf-blood running hot at the very thought.

“You’ve yet to even meet him, Lya. You pass judgement without even knowing the man.”

“I know that he already has bastards. On two different girls. Two, Ned, and he’s yet to reach one-and-twenty.” She glared, tightening her arms over her chest. Her brother opened his mouth, no doubt to defend Robert to his last breath, but was silenced by a booming laugh that echoed like thunder across the courtyard. 

“Eddard Stark, you glorious bastard! Already wooing a fair maiden, eh?” Lyanna turned to watch as a large man detached himself from a group of swooning women, rolling her eyes heavenward. _Here we go.._ She thought, trying to keep the disgust off of her face, _Time for this farce to begin.._

Robert clapped a meaty hand over Ned’s shoulder, nearly throwing the man off his feet as he noted her, arms still crossed, glaring. “Ah, and this must be..?” He prompted, expecting, no doubt, her to be some serving maid or other such wench, though her brother actually keeping such company was enough to make her want to laugh. Eddard Stark was as chaste as a septa, and nearly as shy.

Schooling her expression into the insipid, sickly-sweet smile that she reserved for those she detested most, she dipped into a curtsy, smiling through the curtain of her unbound hair. “Lyanna Stark, my lord Baratheon.” She murmured, ignoring the disapproving look that curdled her brother’s features as she rose to her feet, enjoying the open-mouthed horror that had silenced the great oaf before her. 

“My lady! I meant no dishonor! I-I..I,uh..” She smirked at this, pleased that she had managed to render the bumbling idiot to stumbling over his words. She raised a brow in amusement as he nearly kissed the dirt below his feet in his haste to bow as low as he could, pulling her hand into his as he pressed a kiss to the pale skin.

“It’s an honor to finally meet you, My Lady. Your brother’s stories did not do your beauty justice.” She hated the simpering sincerity in his voice, and attempted to pull her hand from his grasp, though he simply tightened his grip. 

“Flowery words will win you no favor from me, my Lord.” She warned, her voice still dripping in honeyed sweetness as she smiled innocently up at him. He only chuckled, and she wanted to scream at the surge of lust that glittered in his dull blue eyes. 

“Perhaps you could gift me with a different favor, my lady? I’m to join the lists, and I can think of no better luck charm than the favor of the beauty of the Seven Kingdoms. Will you grace me with yours?” She wanted to roll her eyes to the very back of her skull at his masquerade of being a chivalrous gentleman, but settled instead for gracing him with a smile, her teeth gleaming faintly. _I have teeth, Lord Robert.._ She thought, toying absently with a strand of her hair, as if considering his request, _And a wolf can easily take down a stag._ That though was her comfort as she shook her head, finally managing to pull her hand from his. 

“My brothers are the only men I will gift my favor, Lord Baratheon. And, when the day comes, my husband too, shall wear my ribbons.” She didn’t miss the way his very mood seemed to lift at the thought of her marriage, and she wanted to scream at how persistent the creature seemed to want to possess her. 

“Now, I’d like to watch my brother Brandon honor our house by riding for us. Come, Ned.” She placed an hand on Ned’s arm, pulling him from the lure of catching up with his beastly friend, and made for their box in the stands. She had had enough of Lord Baratheon for one afternoon, and she was determined to avoid him for the rest of the tourney. Ice endured, and she too, would be carved from ice, and not allow the infuriating man another thought.


	4. The Coming Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! My apologies for such a delay in posting this, but there's been a lot going on and it's been a bit sidetracked. I promise to be better about more timely updates, but please be patient with me, especially in the coming weeks! (I've a major surgery ahead of me, and I promise I'll do my absolute best to update as often as I can!)

The sunshine that had beckoned him an escape from the stifling guilt that threatened to choke him in the sept had blackened almost as quickly as his mood, clouds darkening the horizon and heralding the coming storm with the low rumble of distant thunder.

He felt a hand close over his shoulder and turned, half expecting that his father had ordered him dragged back to the sept to endure watching Elia’s face crumble into ash, but instead met a pair of violet eyes that were nearly as heartbroken as his own.

“Arthur.” His voice was a broken croak, devoid of any emotion, as if he had successfully managed to turn his heart into a hunk of cold marble.

The knight offered a wan smile, the breeze that whipped through the streets pushing a few strands of dark hair across the golden-bronze of his cheeks. “You did well, Rhaegar.” He rarely called Rhaegar by his given name, the only other time the Dragon Prince could recall was the eve of his wedding.

_“Try not to look so much like a dead fish, Your Grace. You’ll scare poor Elia before she even makes it down the aisle.” Arthur’s voice rang through his apartments, and Rhaegar turned from where several different pages (no doubt sent by his mother) were laying out the most ridiculously grand outfit that he had seen in his one and twenty moons of life._

_“Dead fish? I’ll look more like an overdressed peacock in this mess!” He groaned, good-naturedly, running a hand over his face in a last-ditch attempt to chase the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes._

_Arthur noticed this and shot him a wide grin, gesturing to the black and red banners lining the streets of King’s landing, catching the early morning sun. “Too early for you, Your most Royal Highness? For shame, the smallfolk have you bested in means of morning constitutions!” He japed with a laugh, and Rhaegar felt his own spirits raise for what seemed to be the first time that morning._

_“Arthur,” He began, the seriousness of his tone making the older man stiffen, “You’ve met her? Elia?” He sounded so scared, so childlike, that even Arthur couldn’t even muster the strength to tease him._

_“Met her? She played with Ashara and I as children in the Water Gardens, and had a temper to match Ashara’s. And plenty of sharp words to equal Oberyn and I’s teasing.” Arthur recalled, a fond smile testing the corners of his lips as he was called to the past, almost able to smell the orange groves that lined the Water Gardens. He shook his head with a wistful sigh, and fixed his Prince with another smile. “You’ll be good together. You’ll be good for each other, Rhaegar. And in time, I pray that you’ll grow to love her.”_

_Love her, I did._ He thought bitterly, the image of the flames crawling over her pyre flashing through his mind. _And she’s ashes. _He straightened his shoulders, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword, and lifted his gaze to the Keep, brooding over the citizens of King’s Landing.__

____

‘Let’s go, Arthur. Whent’s tourney awaits.” He spat, the venom in his voice palatable as he began to descend the great staircase of the Sept, his armour clanking hollowly as his foot met the stones. Even now, as his grief ripped through his chest like his father’s wildfire, and he was tasked to find a new bride.

____

Arthur, thankfully, remained silent, simply falling into stride beside him. “I’ve yet to cry, Arthur. I don’t think I will.” He admitted quietly, almost in a whisper, and Arthur could hear the blanket of sadness that laced his words.

____

“You will cry. Perhaps not today, nor tomorrow. Perhaps not even within the next moon, but you will cry for her.” Arthur’s tone was gentle, not wanting to upset Rhaegar anymore than his monster of a father already had. His only answer was a small falter in the Prince’s steps, a sharp intake of breath, before his steps resumed as forcefully as before.

____

The remainder of the walk back to the Keep was in stony silence, punctured here and there with the distant threat of the coming storm. _And such a storm.._ Arthur thought, watching the iron of Rhaegar’s retreating back, _He wasn’t sure Rhaegar could weather._

____


	5. Another Author's Note

Hello again, all of you lovely readers! So, this operation has turned out to be WAY more complicated than I originally thought, and is going to knock me out of commission for another two or so months. (Believe me, I wish I was up and around again already!) I go under the knife again on the 9th of July, but I have been trying my best to write you all some more chapters! (The writer's block has been killer lately.) I hope to have them edited and posted sometime this week, and I ask that you all stay patient! I hope you all are doing well, and thank you all for the support. It means the world!  
~M  



	6. The Summer Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the lateness of this update. Before you go, i know that this isn't some of my best work, but writer's block can be quite difficult to get around. I hope you enjoy, and I promise there'll be another chapter up soon! -M

Lyanna silently cursed the gods for her rotten luck, holding tight to her brother's sleeve as they ascended the stairs to the Stark’s box, nearly tripping over the mass of her skirts in her haste to simply sit and clear her mind.

“Gods be good, Lya, ‘tis not a race.” Ned scolded, tugging his sleeve from her grasp with an exasperated shake of his head, his expression softening somewhat at the storm brewing behind his sister’s eyes. 

“Hey, now, Lyanna..It won’t be so bad, you’ll see.” He reassured quietly, tucking his sister’s hand into the crook of his arm, the watery smile she offered him tugging at the strings of his heart, and for a moment, he felt his sister’s pain as keenly as she did. 

She sank into her seat, ignoring the reproachful huff of Benjen at her “unladylike” behavior, and propped her chin in her hands, a mask of boredom seemingly slipping over her to mask her true emotions, though her brothers could easily read the uncertainty in her storm-grey eyes.

Allowing her eyes to wander the assembled crowd, she noted each family of rank had their own private box, far above where the lowly squires and lucky few smallfolk would watch the festivities. A gleam of gold caught her eye, and she turned to the box situated besides them, meeting a pair of emerald green eyes that watched her as one would a rabid dog, full of mistrust and disgust. _Cersei Lannister, if i’m not mistaken_ She thought to herself, though the golden hair that shone in the sun, nearly blinding in its own right was enough to confirm the woman’s identity. She watched for a few moments longer, smiling slightly as the Lannister girl grew bored and tore her emerald gaze from the steel that looked back. She sat back with her hands clasped in her lap, noting that the young woman of House Lannister seemed to view every and any female member of the Great House will the same distrusting glare, though for what reason, she could not say. That is, until, her gaze drifted to the young man seated at the Lannister girl’s right, her mirror image in every way. _Her brother, Jaime._ And how the eyes of every maiden present seemed to watch his every move, a collective sight rippling through the women when he so much as pushed a strand of hair back. She muffled her snort of contempt at such doe-eyed idiocy, straightening her spine (as much as her thrice-damned corset would allow) as the first horn sounded, signaling the beginning of the tourney. 

Lord Whent was a rotund man, obviously sweating heavily in his rich velvets as he climbed the stairs to the dais, in which after situating himself comfortably in the chair offered, went on to introduce his daughter, the reigning Queen of Love and Beauty, and noted each of her four brothers who would have to be unseated in tomorrow’s joust in order to win the title. The girl was pretty, and obviously enjoyed the attention as each of her brothers bowed to her, giggling behind the silk of her fan. It was this sort of pageantry that bore her beyond measure, and Lyanna rose to her feet, brushing past her brothers as she descended the stairs, wanting nothing more than to claw herself out of her infernal dress and take off riding. 

She was still lost in her thoughts as she passed by the outskirts of the Stark encampment, stilling as a whimper of pain reached her ears, followed by the sound of a heavy blow. Frowning, she rounded the corner of the nearest tent, her expression quickly turning thunderous as she took in the scene before her. Three squires, each sporting the sigil of a different house, and huddled figure between them, a target for their vicious kicks. The scales of the fallen man’s shirt shone copper in the sun, and the three-pronged trident that lay discarded at the edge of the grass was all she needed to discern his identity, her wolf’s blood running white-hot at the sight. A crannogman, loyal to the Starks for centuries, and he was reduced to a plaything for bored squires. 

“That’s my father’s man you’re kicking, you insolent, pig-headed beasts!” She roared, startling the tallest of the three, who paused to leer at her with a sickly smile. “This isn’t a place for useless little girls, so get going, _M’lady_ ,” He taunted, even sweeping her a bow to the sarcastic laughter of his friends. 

She gritted her teeth, balling her fists by her sides, and straightened herself to her full height, her voice as cold and unyielding as ice. “You will help him to his feet, offer your apologies, and House Stark will forget this insult.” She ordered, startled by the sudden bout of laughter all three joined in on. 

”We will do no such thing, especially for a worthless mud-ball like him.” The squire from House Frey retorted, scoffing at the very thought, as his fellow tormentors nodded in agreement. She bit back her snarl of rage, darting forward to grab a sword from the racks that lay at the edge of the camp, and brandished it before her. Her reflection started back from the silver of the blade, and she looked every inch an enraged wolf, her grey eyes bright in her anger. “Then I shall fight you myself!” She cried, bringing the sword above her head as she charged at the largest of the three, a squire from House Haigh. 

The boy easily outstepped her rush, amidst cries of alarm from his cronies at the sight of her blade. As she stumbled, catching a root with the edge of her foot before tumbling to the earth with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs, her mind chided her. _“You’re in over your head now, girl, and you had best hope to come out of this mess unscathed.”_ She ignored this hissed warning, clambering to her feet as she spat out a mouthful of dirt, breathing heavily as she once more leveled the blade at the trio, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. _Starks protect their own._ Her mind echoed with the words as she made ready to charge the boys again, willing to spill blood to protect the man still huddled between them. 


	7. Author's Note!

I just wanted to thank all of you for being so understanding and supportive, it really means the world to know that you care. And I wanted to let you know that a third surgery is likely going to be needed (Sadly, but with a short recovery time!) and that I won't let it kill my writing like it has as of late. Regular updates are on their way to getting back on track! Thank you all, and happy reading! -M


	8. Summer Storms, Broken Memories

The ride to Lord Whent’s tourney was a punishment in and of itself, Rhaegar mused silently, the only true distraction from the monotonous silence being the soft clinking of his armour as he and Arthur plodded along. Silence was not welcome, it allowed too many memories to come flooding back, ripping away the temporary peace he had crafted for himself with the rage and ferocity of the harshest summer storms.

_“ “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…” Princess Elia’s voice was hardly more than a whisper, struggling to be heard over the murmurings of the assembled court. Rhaegar could hear his Father muttering crossly somewhere behind him, bemoaning that the “Dornish girl” couldn’t even muster the strength to say her vows correctly. It must have hit its mark with the young woman before him, coloring her cheeks with shame. Rhaegar grit his teeth, barely biting back some scathing retort before realizing just how distsarous it could be for the slight woman before him. Seven Hells, she was cloaked in his colors, and to have her in danger less than a night into their marriage would be one of his greatest blunders!_

_“I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days,” He repeated, trying to keep the boredom off of his features. Gods above, how the High Septon had droned! He had even managed to secure a smile from his new bride, pantomiming that he had fallen asleep as the High Septon extolled the necessary virtues for their new Princess, his voice monotone and wheezing throughout. It was only after the man had cleared his throat rather annoyedly that Rhaegar even realized he had spoken._

_“You may kiss your bride, Your Grace.” The man repeated, and Rhaegar suspected that he wanted to tap his foot in impatience._

_He leant forward to press the perfunctory kiss to the Princess’s rose-hued lips, drawing cheers from the assembled nobles. He didn’t feel the spark that so many of the court whispered and pined after, it was nothing more than the brush of skin against skin. The sight of the shivering woman before him, drowning in the gossamer fabrics of the Martells and swathed in the red and black of the Targaryen dynasty gave him pause. She looked terrified, and her amber eyes seemed to pierce his heart as though with a blade, and he knew that he would protect his new wife. Or die trying._

It was the scent of oranges that withdrew Rhaegar from his memories, strong enough to bring a new threat of tears to his eyes. It reminded him of the cut crystal vial that had always occupied Elia’s rooms, filled with golden oil that smelled exactly the same. The same scent had always clung to her, as though imbibed into her very skin. It had surrounded her even in the birthing bed, mingling with coppery stench of blood and the dank reek of impending death, had nearly choked him as he had cradled her corpse in his arms and whispered every promise to her deaf ears, _if only she would return to him._

“I didn’t know they grew blood oranges this far south, Your Grace.” Arthur called from atop his silver destrider, obviously trying to lighten the spirits of the trip with his half-hearted attempt at conversation.

“We’re close, then. Harrenhall’s orchards rivalled that of Highgarden, before the flames.” He returned, his voice devoid of any real interest as he lifted a gauntlet to point at the beginnings of the crumbling ruins that loomed like silent guardians in the distance.

“To my father’s meat market, eh, Arthur?” He japed, his tone venomous as he spurred his horse onward and fought the urge to steer the beast around and ride, never again stopping. He could practically feel Arthur studying him, and shook his head with a bitter bark of laughter. “One wife dead and buried, another wedded and bedded, all within the same moon. My father wastes no time in securing his _beloved_ dynasty.”

“By the Seven, Rhaegar, mind your tongue! His Grace’s spies could be anywhere, and you know as well as I that one wrong word will send you to a pyre of your own making.” The knight beside him chided, his brow creasing in worry at the ghostly smile that pulled at his Prince’s lips.

“Death will not release me so soon, dear Arthur. I must make penance for Elia’s soul, and that, my lord Dayne, could take well beyond the rest of my years.” He retorted quietly, narrowing his eyes as the first few spatterings of tents came into view. There was distant applause that carried on the wind, and he realized that their arrival would not be heavily noted, if at all.

A piercing cry tore him from his misery, and he paused, his violet eyes narrowing. It had sounded only a few tents from where they stood, and sounded for all the world a woman’s fury. He was off of his horse before he knew it, hitting the ground with a muted thud as he rounded upon the strangest sight he had seen in his three and twenty moons of life. A woman, daubed in the Stark colors, with a sword raised over her head as though she were a knight born, though the blood streaming from her nose had dirtied the fabric. She made another makeshift war cry before charging, and he could only watch, amusedly, as her foot caught a root and sent her tumbling to the earth below. 

_“What in the Seven Hells in going on!?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, guys, hello! Firstly, let me offer every apology under the sun for taking so very long to come back to this story. Truth be told, I hadn't the faintest idea where to go with it, and if I'm being honest, I'm still not 100% sure! However, I'd like to promise shorter update gaps in the future, my health withstanding! It'll be so good to hear from you, and as always, feedback and critiques are most welcome!  
> ~M


End file.
